


For I Passed Through the Darkness (and I came out singing)

by Nny11



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Abuse, Additional Tags to Be Added if Requested, Adora and others are featured but are not the primary focus, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Final Chapter is Catra's PoV, Gen, Heavy Angst, Physical Abuse, Shadow Weaver PoV, Shadow Weaver thinks she's the hero of this story but she isn't, Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner's A+ Parenting, To Train Up a Child referenced, Whump, abuser perspective, catradora endgame but not primary focus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29525658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny11/pseuds/Nny11
Summary: Beatrix glared down into the crib where her daughter slept. Not a child. Not a human. Not her baby, no, no, no. Her punishment. This was her punishment and Beatrix refused to accept it. She had done her best, she had only ever wanted to do her very best. This animal she had birthed would be trained. Would be taught. It would learn. And she would scream with her defiance as she took it and shaped it into a proper human.
Relationships: Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Catra & Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 19





	1. Inside this chamber, I carry my bane

**Author's Note:**

> A seriously huge shout out to JEITLOSURLHERE for beta reading this for me! Please keep in mind as your read this that Shadow Weaver is a VERY unreliable narrator who thinks she's the good guy doing the right thing. She's not, she's really, really not so take everything she thinks with a grain of salt.
> 
> I also need to say up front that I did not experience child abuse growing up, but that I did have a sensitivity reader (who would prefer to remain unnamed) give this a look over as well.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birth was a truly horrible, nasty experience. And motherhood, a sacred thing, was not meant to be a lie and a trick. She had done nothing to deserve such cruelty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE read the tags and check the warnings. This fic is from Shadow Weaver's perspective and based heavily around To Train Up A Child, which is a horrific child abuse manual. So if the topic of child abuse is triggering for you or even just a squick this is not the fic for you, please be safe and kind to yourself!
> 
> A big thank you to [Venn364](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venn364) and [Jeitoless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeitoless/pseuds/Jeitoless) for editing/beta reading this fic!

Birth was a horrible, nasty experience. No matter what anyone else said, she’d known that as a fact. Birth was dangerous, bloody, and rarely as gentle as one might think. It was a crucible to be tested within.

Beatrix could remember glaring at the small bundle in her arms. Alone at home (at last) but for her sleeping “infant child”, the feeling of burning resentment, and the agonizing ache in her chest as she tried and failed to find joy in this moment. 

Motherhood was a _gift_ after all. A gift for those found worthy and thus a goal...a desire. A symbol of success and womanhood. A cause for respect and celebration!

It was ashes in her mouth. It was the rage that never quite died in her veins. It was everything that had gone wrong in her life bundled so lovingly by faceless nurses, now tucked into the crook of her arm to be admired.

That night- that first night home from the hospital, Beatrix had known that all she’d been told was lies and _lies_ and **lies**. The disgusting creature in her arms was a hellish curse.

Oh yes. She’d known her daughter for the demon she was from birth. 

Nearly twenty hours of labor that came prematurely. Perinatal asphyxiation. Third degree episiotomy tear. She’d watched the nurses and orderlies clean up the bloody sheets as her baby finally began to wail, crying and screaming and carrying on. Yowling like an animal, like a beast, while she had remained strong without the interference of poisoning drugs. A cry was important, yes, but it did not settle or calm even when placed still covered in horrible fluids on her chest. Beatrix had hated _it_ from that very moment.

“What a beautiful girl!” They had cried and cooed, acting like children admiring a particularly marvelous bauble. 

Beatrix had smiled, making sure her eyes crinkled even through her exhaustion. “Yes,” she agreed, “my baby...my beautiful baby.”

A baby. Ha! Idiots! Fools with scales on their eyes! A _baby_. The creature gave her no rest, gave no quarter, took no less than everything in her and no true babe would be so cruel. 

She held that despicable bundle, hissing as it refused to latch and suckle. The humiliation of bottle feeding and formula while she still had to pump viable milk cut to the bone. Worse yet, it threw up and she found blood in its diaper. Lactose intolerant, born that way the doctor said. Beatrix had listened to it howling as she poured her own milk down the bathroom sink and wondered, what good was a baby that could not feed naturally?

Then there had been the rash that broke out because of the diapers used, forcing her to switch to a disposable brand, probably plastic and chemicals...it stabbed at her heart. As if she had not debased herself to wash shit and piss off of the softest microfiber squares with only the best detergents and softeners. As if she had not tried to give it the **very best** option. Whimpering and crying as soon as it soiled itself, as if a few hours was some lofty sacrifice or torture, then twisting and worming to get away when changed.

The pacifier refused, the teething rings ignored, and yet it always found a way to gnaw at her hands. Dribbling drool and snot on her nice clothes, vomiting when burped even with the despicable formula. And tears. Always tears and always CRYING!

No.

Birth was a truly horrible, nasty experience. And motherhood, a sacred thing, was not meant to be a lie and a trick. She had done nothing to deserve such cruelty.

No.

Beatrix glared down into the crib where her daughter slept. Not a child. Not a human. Not her baby, no, no, no. Her _punishment_ . This was her punishment and Beatrix refused to accept it. She had done her best, she had only ever wanted to do her very best. This animal she had birthed would be trained. Would be taught. It would _learn_ . And she would scream with her defiance as she took it and shaped it into a _proper human._

Or she would weep with defeat as she killed it.

It. 

Her daughter. 

The demon. 

C’yra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this whole fic is actually written, edited, and got a sensitivity check. As such there will be an actual posting schedule once a week on Saturdays!


	2. Suspicion is like a wild starving dog, that when left alone will feast on itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And now you are crying, tell me are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Do you need a doctor?”
> 
> “No mama."
> 
> Beatrix placed the ruler gently on C’yra’s arm, resting it there without hitting as a reminder while she said, “Then you have no need to cry. Walk it off.”

C’yra was testing her again, Beatrix could feel it in her soul. 

Now nearly three years old it had, somehow, grown more defiant. The crying had never stopped, it refused potty training, and often refused to use words. Choosing to snivel and howl instead, chanting a pathetic litany of “mama, mama, mama” as if Beatrix could simply read its mind.

She had learned, when she was young and her own mother had given her responsibilities, that animals respond not just to what you say, but how you say it. Yelling and screaming would get you nowhere, for they would respond to the volume and the tone and not the order. With training though, any creature could be taught to respond to a calmly stated phrase. If a dog could learn, so too would this child.

“No, that is not for you.” Beatrix spoke soft and even, reinforcing her original verbal command through repetition. In one hand she loosely held a thin wood ruler. And she watched and she waited.

C’yra cradled its left hand, tears already pooling as it sniffled. A clear ploy to manipulate her into capitulating. It stared forlornly at the small plush cat and groaned, stomping little feet up and down as it blinked furiously.

She would give the creature every chance within reason, after all, it was thick and slow. So, she reminded. “Use your words.”

C’yra whined, clutching its hand tighter as if the two small taps of the ruler had broken bone instead of barely leaving a pink mark which had faded within seconds. It furiously shook its head before managing to speak, “Mine Whiskers! I want- I want Whiskers!”

“Is it playtime?” She asked, one brow arched at the head shake she received. One quick but gentle switch with the ruler to its back preceded her second reminder, “Use your words. I will not tell you again. Is it playtime?”

C’yra arched as if mortally wounded, theatrically throwing her head this way and that. “No. Wah-want Whiskers please!”

Despite the headache brewing and the rage flashing through her veins at her child’s insolence, Beatrix kept her voice even and calm. “No, it is not playtime, as you just said. You must clean up C’yra. It is time to clean up.”

C’yra rubbed the tears from her eyes before returning back to pick up her toys. Feet dragging as she went to place them back in her toy chest. Two taps and three reminders. It was a new record. A glimpse of the good little girl that could be.

When littler still, Beatrix had found that a quick sharp tug to her daughter’s hair and a firm but softly spoken no was enough to teach it not to bite. It took a few days, yes, but it worked. She’d realized then, feeling foolish all the while, her daughter wasn’t human yet and required more training than a true baby would. C’yra was still young yet and punishing it for bad behavior was ineffective. Training was key. 

Consistent training.

She’d started with ignoring the cries meant to twist her emotions in on themselves. C’yra had been taught to respond promptly when called for when barely a year old. Then it had been training to not grab Beatrix’s food or touch her things. It took longer before C’yra had stopped trying to root through her purse like some street vagrant, but learned she had. Teaching and training. Molding through methods it could comprehend. Not that it often stuck. 

C’yra was the most willful child she had ever met. So repetition was, unfortunately, required.

And this particular toy was always a good one to use. 

C’yra’s ridiculous attachment to it allowed for additional training as needed, and  _ it _ always needed some training at home. Public displays of disobedience had been dealt with both outside and at home, always with an explanation as to why she was going to do what she was. And out there, luckily, with the prying, judging eyes of the world upon them, C’yra had learned. Beatrix wouldn’t lie and say she didn’t feel some pride and satisfaction as she watched her daughter wipe her eyes dry instead of screaming away. She also knew that it simply wouldn’t last. In public her daughter could become calm and stoic, yet at home her defiance continued.

So  _ she _ continued. Her child would learn to obey her authority, to be a good child, a good girl. But until then, Beatrix would show the same leniency to it as it showed to her.

C’yra returned, moaning through clenched teeth, eyes sparkling once more with tears. A quick survey of the room found one toy still left out, half hidden behind the bookshelf. Beatrix pointed to it, frustrated to have needed to assist. As if the simple act of picking up  _ toys _ was some grand labor.

“No. You are not finished cleaning up.” When it growled, Beatrix’s temper flared. She grabbed one chubby arm and firmly moved it to stand between her and the coffee table, well within sight of the stupid toy. If C’yra wished to be obstinate, then this required a firmer hand. Oh, it tried to squirm away, muted groaning becoming hiccupping sobs. “You did not clean up. You did not speak using your words. Do not fight me child, this behavior is intolerable!”

She still waited until it growled or cried or tried to move, timing was key. Quick light smacks with the ruler were used only when required, only when her orders had been disobeyed. It would take time for the little creature to wear itself out, and Beatrix waited patiently as she could. Her frustration would not win. Her anger would not win. She would not allow a toddler to dictate anything to her, especially not this one. Beatrix corrected, repositioned, and waited. Eventually, as it always did, her daughter ceased her struggles. Standing perfectly still and not even looking at the beloved toy.

She waited a few minutes more before speaking, “It is time to clean up C’yra, do you understand?”

“Yes mama.” C’yra’s voice hitched, full of emotion.

“What did you do wrong?”

“No cleaned up. Mmmm- n-no speak up. Wanted Wh-Whiskers.”

“And now you are crying, tell me are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Do you need a doctor?”

“No mama,” the miserable little wretch sobbed. The little girl vanished once more; the beast remained.

Beatrix placed the ruler gently on C’yra’s arm, resting it there without hitting as a reminder while she said, “Then you have no need to cry. Walk it  **off** .”

Still crying, but at least making an effort to now be quiet C’yra tugged until the last toy finally came free and then dutifully put it away. It returned and didn’t ask for the cherished cat, didn’t even look at it. If the little brat had followed directions, Whiskers would have been happily given over. Beatrix would not reward such appalling behavior as she’d seen by allowing it to play with the toys she lent it. Instead she stood, ignoring the small stuffed cat as well. “It is time for your bath.”

As she watched C’yra slowly go to the stairs to strip and put her clothes away, Beatrix placed the ruler down. Good behavior was never its own reward, and on the heels of such an episode she knew that this was merely another ploy to act as if it was a good child before asking for the cat again.

Always testing and scheming, Beatrix was not surprised when the request came. A swift and decisive no ended the conversation, and C’yra did not ask again.

She still watched suspiciously half the night outside of her daughter’s room and was pleasantly surprised to not hear crying nor find her trying to sneak out. She was so  _ close _ . So  _ very _ close!

Patience, she reminded herself, patience was a virtue. Patience would win her this war of wills. 


End file.
